


Apostle, Disciple

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Art discussions, Awards, Bathing/Washing, Conference, Eventual Smut, F/F, Freakytits - Freeform, Hotels, Season/Series 02, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Smut, Swimming, Swimming Pools, Watching, conferences, discussions, observation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26116816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Another conference offers reprieve from the toils of prison. In other words, a hotel, a conference, a pool, and some liquid courage lead to a ritual ensuring one unholy union.A disciple is a student, the apostle a teacher; the apostle was once a disciple, but the disciple is never the teacher. It's an intricate relationship, interwoven and religiously bound.
Relationships: Vera Bennett/Joan Ferguson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 45





	1. in the beginning the mercurial path opened to her

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I have fabricated information regarding the corrections conference & awards ceremony. While I have conducted some research, I would rather the conference be a work of fiction, similar to the hotel. I draw from some personal experience of attending conferences, networking events, and conventions. The Future Corrections Summit, however, is a real event.
> 
> Be warned, there’s a lot of water involved in this fic (showering, bathing, and swimming as well as the more licentious acts involved later on). As someone who attends conferences and conventions, I often shower twice a day (sometimes more) at hotels, ha – felt that was a bit attuned for Joan. Part of this fic had been sparked by my attendance of WWCon last year, too.
> 
> An explicit warning will be included on the final chapter, as it will contain graphic smut. I will add additional tags when I reach the third chapter.
> 
> Hope you're all doing well and keeping safe! x  
> -  
> Since ao3 is a bit wonky, I'm including the works described in the first chapter in the beginning of this note.
> 
> Here's O'Keeffe's "Black Abstraction": https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/489814
> 
> Here's a photo of Radya's "Red Square": https://bookpatrol.net/street-play-world-atlas-street-art-graffiti/image-and-photo-by-radya-red-square-ekaterinburg-russia/

This week’s conference is a welcome reprieve from the penitentiary’s bleak, stark walls. The hotel, itself, is a liminal space decorated with gaudy carpeting from another era and yellow wallpaper claiming to contain a modern design. Upon rolling up to the building with her suitcase, Vera feels consumed by the sheer size of the place with its glaring windows accentuated by a spark of sunlight.

Weeks prior after reviewing the fiscal budget, the Governor had challenged her bright-eyed disciple with a pointed “would you rather turn your tail and return home each evening?” as opposed to outright dismissal towards Vera’s timid indecision. Vera experienced red-cheeked shame and stumbled out an agreement to stay at the hotel on-site; home was just as much a prison as the one she worked in, devoid of Mum or not.

The Regional Corrections Conference in Victoria is a far lesser beast to tackle over the Annual Future Justice & Corrections Summit in Sydney. Still, Vera experiences a flurry or nerves the night before. She finds herself unable to sleep, tossing and turning, rechecking her luggage three times over.

For their stay at this hotel, Governor and Deputy have received respectful commendations to attend a conference following an evening awards ceremony which features both a Community Work Partnership Award and the Commissioner’s Award amongst far less notable accomplishments.

How freeing it is to stray from strict prison grounds!

The night before the main spectacle, Vera removes her clothing from her dinky, dented suitcase and lines the drawers in some semblance of uniform order. Her suit hangs in the closet, now shaken free of any compact wrinkles. In her routine of checking locks, her tentative stare drifts towards the bolted door which acts as a partition between a joint room. Her fingers trace the collar of her sleep shirt, powder blue and comfortably lived in, as she remembers the wolf in the den.

The Governor was in the room beside her room – so close yet still conceptually far enough away. At the prospect, Vera swallows hard. She feels comforted yet something else she can’t quite put her finger on.

So, it’s another restless evening followed by a hot cuppa in the early morning.

For the conference, Vera lets down her hair. She combs through tawny, frizzy brown curls one last time. Shaky hands smooth out the contours of her navy blazer. Underneath, a monochromatic, floral blouse billows, open at the throat.

In the hallway where Governor and Deputy reconvene, Miss Ferguson notes how her darling little prodigy looks terrible proud of herself. Even poses in the mirror near the lift, a coquettish arch of her shoulder. Bemused, Joan’s lips form a smile. She watches Vera’s reflection, a glimmer of amusement and appraisal at her newly found confidence feed into a fire.

Although a far cry from a machine, Joan conducts herself with mechanical efficiency. Rather than the militant bun, Joan pulls her hair back into a neat, taut ponytail.

“Hello, Vera,” she intones, speaks softly without the need for brute force.

A vision in white with a silken black blouse renders Miss Bennett speechless. How remarkably handsome the Governor looks today.

“G’day, Gu- _Joan_.” Vera’s quick to correct herself which offers a ghostly grin from her companion.

“I trust you’ve had a good night’s rest,” Joan muses though she assumes otherwise, as observed by the nervous energy radiating from Vera when they step into the lip.

“Well enough,” she says after a rattling laugh. Her hands ball into rattling fists before loosening gradually, soothed by the warm presence beside her.

They fall into a companionable silence as they separate for the day’s activities. There are some small room sessions which Vera has taken the initiative to pursue. She’s interested in the results procured by the papers, but more interested in how these figures approach discussion around their findings. Vera, quiet in her observations and convictions, believes that the women could _benefit_ from programs centered on education and art-based practice. Therein, she meets a fellow who proposes art as a tool for development and reintegration. She listens, she jots notes, she even has the courage to ask a question about his methodology.

Joan would be proud, and maybe she is, after the general population reconvene for a tea break.

“Enjoying the freedom of exploration?” Joan inquires with a faint headtilt, no different from Daedalus’ statues.

“I’m learning a great deal about doctrine and best practice philosophies, though I think I’m learning more about the people over their work,” she rambles as she nurses her café au lait.

Espresso in hand, raised akin to a scepter, Joan humors her with active listening.

“It’s useful to know your colleagues and your challengers. Playing to their strengths and disarming them by their weaknesses will serve as great leverage for your future here,” Joan surmises.

She makes the field sound like a war.

Maybe it is.

Even in the hotel, an elusive enigma’s presence commands attention. It’s the same song and dance despite some variations. In public, Governor Ferguson conducts herself with such grave solemnity. Away from Wentworth, Vera barely comes up to her shoulder and struggles to memorize names, but she remembers their work.

Later on, a room of baroque style houses a hundred chairs, perhaps more. Esoteric jargon ensues. It’s a nonsensical poem invoking terminology like corrections, protection, jurisdiction, rehabilitation, and inmates or prisoners, but never the mark of human lives. That's the real tragedy.

During the ceremony, Vera stifles a chortle that gets quelled by Ferguson’s raised brow. At the most inopportune moment, Vera finds the announcer’s quip to be downright silly. Although Joan’s facial expression reads as coy, her reaction sends shivers all over. Flushed, she looks away, giving into the unspoken metaphorical chase.

The cacophony of applause nearly swallows the man gracing the podium. The proud recipient stands on the stage and basks in the glow of such fine praise before issuing his own droll monologue of gratitude disguised as recognition. He receives a fancy paper to be entombed in a glass house, either doomed to collect dust or to hang on a wall glorifying his ego. Another round of hearty clapping ensues.

Joan wears the mask of a stoic giving away nothing. Her folded hands rest in her lap, purse by a polished black heel. Legs for days form a cross – a projection of the Hanged Man in later days.  
  
Vera listens, she takes mental notes, she toys with the booklet clenched between curled fingers. There’s a feather light touch, a mere grazing across her knuckles, only for her to realize that the gesture has come from Joan. She holds the memory under lock and key. Blushes a little harder, surprised by the forthright action from the aloof Governor who sanitizes religiously. That bold caress disappears in a flash.

Quelled, her shoulders lift a little higher so she appears just a bit more confident. Loyalty buys Vera adoration. Guided by an iron hand under Joan’s tutelage, Vera feels invincible.

As the evening replaces the afternoon, the commotion reverberating from within the hotel dulls. Apostle and disciple wander towards the lobby and take up residence at the surprisingly modern bar. Vera finds that she enjoys how the metallic sputnik chandelier, while gaudy, paints bars across the ground and illuminates Joan’s face, as if she were some holy vision.

Undergoing this metamorphosis, Joan has plucked the fear right out of her.  
  
“It’s a welcome reprieve from bureaucracy,” Vera says after a sigh gets cut short when she settles onto the hard, uncomfortable white stool, legs dangling and never quite reaching the floor.

Perspiration beads above her upper lip, her skin pebbles, as Joan assesses her for appraisal.

Joan despises the social niceties dripping with false sincerity. Loathes the teamwork building exercises and absolutely despised the icebreakers. She considers herself a woman who much preferred to get to the point.

“And what did you learn from this?” The Governor asks. Presents her test with a flourish of her wrist. She smooths out her ponytail which didn't require the gesture; it's for show, open to the power of Vera's stare. When she leans forward, elbow on her firm upper thigh, Joan prepares to strike as she offers her profile in a conspiratory light.

_She cares about me. She cares about what I think._

So, Vera thinks carefully. She chooses not to reflect on the ego of men. Deep down, she knows herself capable of recognition and earning respect, but that introspection isn't what Ferguson seeks. Deputy Governor Bennett is no longer embarrassed by the amount of research she conducted prior to this trip.

“This conference has led me to fully appreciate your tactile choices in running Wentworth.”

After that golden offering, she breaks down the methodological approaches to corrections and announces her struggles regarding the philosophy of her colleagues. She has never been able to wrap her mind around constructs, only ever fantasizing about ideals in the privacy of her room.

Joan consumes the praise with a mere half-smile, seemingly shy, unsuspectingly vulnerable before dismissing credit where it’s properly due with a wave of her hand. That’s not what she seeks. She wants _more_.

Framed by curled lashes accentuated by a thin layer of mascara, hazy blues concentrate on the vision adjacent to her. Seizing the spark of great ambition, Vera blossoms and blooms and Joan admires the woman she becomes.  
  
The light in her eyes burns so brightly. Joan finds herself drawn to the glimmer of potential and cruelty begging to be harnessed. If she could only work on her wayward judgment.  
  
Their common philosophy shared in corrections is noted. They talk about everything and everything becomes misconstrued as nothing or something hitherto. A keeper of secrets files away information for future exploitation.

Joan's bottom lip offers a glimpse of sharp, white teeth when she takes a sip of her dirty martini. Her surprise, while reduced to a mere quirk of the brow, is temporary as she comments on Vera's choice of a whiskey sour.

“My uncle used to drink them, from what I remember,” Vera muses with a frail smile, washed away by the clink of ice.

It stings, but God, it feels _good_.

“Family is important to you, isn’t it?”

A refined actress, Joan disguises the twinge that tightens her throat with inference. She drains her drink, sets the silver fork down upon the discarded napkin of her empty small plate. A deviation from routine, the feast of appetizers -- rosemary focaccia, arancini, and tiny tender lamb chops – gets shared between them. It’s enough grazing to constitute a meal.

“No,” Vera speaks up, her diamond eyes notably harder. “It’s the memory of family that is important to me, Joan. I’ve learned who to be and **what** not to be.”

After a pregnant pause, Vera drains her drink. Curse her for wanting more.

Intrigued, Joan looks on. As her muscles grow weary, she uncrossed her legs. The tip of her shoe gliding above Vera’s exposed ankle.

Swallowed by the electric blue lights of the elegant hotel bar, her fingertips trace the expanse of her collarbone before landing on Vera’s shoulder-blade, a coy seduction implemented.

Vera enjoys sitting with her, speaking with her, drinking with her, eating with her. The minutiae feels profound in Joan’s presence. While seemingly inebriated, her hair falls into her face, but she isn’t – she’s tipsy and happy to be alive, to be by Joan’s side.

Still swimming in that calculative stare, she could drown in the totality of Joan. That smolder could easily set her ablaze.

“I’ll foot the bill,” Deputy interjects. Her credit card lays on the receipt, taken away to be charged in full.

“What a patron soul,” she muses. “Thank you” comes out much softer, far more genuine.

“My pleasure,” Vera retorts with one of those electric smiles, her laughter lines embedded deeply into her skin.

Reticent, Joan brandishes a mask. She plays Vera sweetly as she plays her game of reign. Hunger tethers her Deputy. Consumed by this crushing force, her insides burn and churn, a fiery tingling sensation that refuses to fade.

Albeit with some reservation, Vera asserts herself. Hand upon a bone white cheek, a kiss gets stolen in the moonlight, the bar light, the artificiality replaced by what might appear genuine.

Joan’s lips, glossy and soft, part to afford the breath of life, but offering no further encouragement, she withdraws. It’s a Cheshire smile, one for Vera to read and to decode. So rarely does she allow herself such a decadent game of give and chase, of conquer and consume.

Spellbound, Vera recoils. She traces her cupid’s bow, seemingly dazed by her own behavior. Neither choose to comment on what has transpired, the bar tender far on the other side of the lounge, busying himself with the menial task of cleaning glassware.

In the lobby hallway by the lift, there’s a replica of Georgia O’Keeffe’s _Dark Abstraction_ (1924). Shade of black and warped prison blue clash in this abstract piece. She supposes it is an image that speaks volumes, that can assume any shape or landscape, or a feminine body thrust into the centrifuge mingling dark and light together. But like Vera, the piece hung on the wall often feels forgotten.

Standing beside the Governor, Vera tries to overcome the sensation of being overshadowed. That deep, sultry tenor whispers a secret into her cherry red ear. Her steady palm ghosts over her shoulder. It lingers. The mark brands her; surely, Cain felt a similar guilt.

Burning alive from such ardent affection, Vera damn near glows from such a gentle, intentional touch.

“Her portraits are quite evocative. Does the piece compel you? Do you feel provoked to _act_?”

Warm, red breath nibbles at the shell of her ear, wry amusement infused into Joan’s tone.

Sweltering heat radiates from the magnitude of Joan’s sheer presence, full of redundancies she can’t cast aside. Her fated devotee pays a quiet reverence to the work prior to speaking.

"What, ah, speaks to me is the arch of a bare back that holds a promise. That, erm, little light amidst all the darkness; it gives me hope," she splutters, a slight tremor to her words.

Who knew that Vera could be a bonafide Dante!

My how, Vera’s interpretations assume a more lustful nature.

Confrontation galore deviates into a conversation about Radya’s street art. Joan details Radya’s calculated risks which strive to galvanize, unionize, and inspire all of Moscow. Her favorite, Red Square, depicts a splatter of crimson splattering a snowy blanket to mourn the loss of a historical building.

“I didn’t know you enjoyed street art. I just assumed that it would be a bit too… vigilante, for you?”

Her gaze flits towards the monolith beside her, a statute which everyone ought to revere. There’s a glimmer, a snippet of brightness, that allows Vera to observe the diamond studs the Governor has worn today. She steps into the lift and already regrets her words. Inwardly, Vera winces.

Joan stands beside her. Tuts as a form of admonishment before pressing a button with her handkerchief, quick to sanitize afterwards.

“Come now, Vera. It’s the message I appreciate, not the blatant destruction of property. You have much to learn about me.”

Trapped in her old ways to some extent, Vera offers an apology which Joan dismisses. The analysis of art draws its conclusion. Deflection steers the course of conversation.

“Miss Bennett," she drags out her surname in a delectable rasp. "Surely, you’re up for a night swim?”

Is this what it means to feed a fever? Or is Vera simply in too deep?

She agrees to meet her down by the indoor pool in approximately forty minutes. Never would Vera imagine denying Joan.


	2. laid to rest in a watery tomb or born anew in the baptismal font

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They lounge by the pool, take a dip, and indulge.

Joan and Vera’s evening encounter passes the Bechdel test with considerable ease.

The key card grants Miss Ferguson private access to the grounded indoor pool. A canvas tote bag full of well-placed contents grips her shoulder and leaves an impermanent crosshatch brand upon her skin. The charcoal metal gate swings shut behind Joan, its presence a grim, medieval one.

Punctuality suits the Governor as she arrives approximately ten minutes from the agreed rendezvous. Indeed, a mere hour ago, the recreational area had been temporarily closed for maintenance – maintenance which the Governor mandated courtesy of a rather _generous_ donation. The pool room has been cleaned to her standards, sanitized to her satisfaction. She can afford to flaunt her prestige and use her status as leverage.

She regards the interior concrete courtyard with a keen eye for detail. After finding no fault amongst the silent room or the potted shrubbery, Joan relents by setting down her bag between two of the ventilated chaise lounges that frame a circular glass table. Joan sets the table, akin to the way she sets up a strategic game of chess.

From her quarters, she implants a silver bucket of ice and places two glasses down, as opposed to the disposable, plastic sort. It's unusual for Joan to deviate from her particular tastes and preferences, but this night is one of firsts in many a way. A small bottle of brandy lies still in perfect wait. Although this is a notable change in liquor, time and consumption will help diminish the possibility of one hellish hangover.

In plain sight, a bottle of St. Agnes begs to be consumed; its golden hue a liquid temptress vehemently defying the rules and regulation of the pool area. There’s a saint on the label, a lamb in her arms, as the apparition of a woman glances aside. The green cap is a twist off, the alcohol itself containing a whiff of apricot, a hint of vanilla; an exquisite taste to make the burn that much sweeter.

Two minutes before the agreed deadline, Vera makes her presence known, enshrined in a spa-issued robe left on the warped hanger in her room. She tugs on the belt which loosens from her fidgeting until she finally relents.

Joan glances up from Siken’s _War of the Foxes_ , her middle finger marking the page and leisurely trailing down its exposed center. The spine might as well whimper from such eroticism. A blunt nail hovers above the last stanza running along the printed words that coax thought from art and process: ‘ _Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other._ ’

The iron curtain remains pulled back into a tight, high ponytail. In a one-piece, midnight back (navy, depending on the dim poolside light or the wicked neon gods of the city outside) swimsuit invites silent appraisal. Her ankles, once crossed, now come apart, legs a mere fraction apart. Joan crooks a knee, reading again yet noticing everything, observant to a fault.

Vera balks at the smuggled goods.

“I didn’t bring a gift,” she intercepts, the lines adorning her face already deepening. “I’m sorry I don’t think I should have—”

Instantly, she wishes that she could have brought a little gift, a token of her appreciation, in exchange of thriving under Joan’s carrion wing. Again, Joan dismisses her reluctance, her dubious refusal, by closing the book and waving a hand mid-air.

A mischievous gleam in Joan’s eyes summons another drink to be savored at their own discretion. She swirls her round, stout glass, the single cube melting from the heat of a warm hand. Joan sips, wets her lips, before pouring a generous portion for her underling.

Two cubes should suffice, to take a little edge away from the infernal burn.  
  
“ _Vera_ ,” she tuts, her voice akin to the distant rumble of thunder. “Ever so vanilla, mm? This is an opportunity to unwind from the toils of corrections. Some rules may be twisted to serve a greater good.”

Without commentary, she takes the glass that dangles in front of her. That thin, scratchy cotton of her robe slips from her shoulder. There’s a glimpse of her collarbone, a hint of her skin barely concealed by her swimsuit knotted behind her thin, scrawny neck. Vera wears a bashful mask though there's something else underlying the costume; a hunger, an excruciating need, for more.

She says thank you so they toast out of habit, out of kindness, in ode to this “getaway.” Vera tilts her head back, but she doesn’t cough, rather unlike their first debrief.

Joan smirks, as poised as Count Prosper d'Epinay's statue of Sappho, casual in the way her touch “readjusts” the low dip of her suit. Her arm dangles, now lax when she lifts her chin a sliver sans a scepter in tow. All she’s missing is a laurel or a crown.

How quick Vera is to obey. What a dutiful, loyal deputy. Although often blind-sighted by her desire to appease, she fits the mold quite beautifully now.  
  
This liquid courage precedes her vinegar christening.  
  
Two cotton-white towels are draped over the lawn chairs that lazily yawn, out-stretched and prepared for a decent lounge.

Through the atrium, the nearly full moon is visible. The dim, cerulean glow casts playful shadows across the hallowed, tiled ground. It feels more like a vacation or a wistful daydream rather than work. Vera never wants to leave this hopeful adoring haze of a phase.

She sheds the robe akin to a second skin. The revelation of bare flesh combats some semblance of modesty. Vera opts for a turquoise bikini which clings to her petite form. Narrow hipbones protrude against the secured strings of her swimsuit. A golden glow caresses her skin.

Anchored by the source of her desire, Vera sinks into the water. The reflective surface suggests that her eyes adorn a stormy shade. Her drink sits on the ledge of the pool, in arms reach of she needs another shot of adrenaline. Even though it’s a tad chilly, she learns to adjust. Her toes curl, her feet arched, until she readjusts a step at a time.

Again, Joan holds the book that snuggles up to her soft lap; arguably, her hips and thighs are the softest parts of this thorny woman. She pours herself one last drink, the glass half-empty, her thirst unquenchable. Crown her for keeping her lust in check unlike licentious Asmodeus. 

“Won’t you come in?” Vera begs and pleads, her chin resting on the top of her folded arms, legs propelling her upright. She projects her own sultriness, her starvation for a firm touch, and always something more to be lost in translation.

The water tickles her waist, her belly quivers, and she learns to shake it off by plunging into the deep end.

From the reclined chair, Joan offers an enigmatic smile perfect for the Riddle Sphinx. She casts her crystal chalice aside.

In an intentional orchestration, Joan leaves her limbs apart as if she’s laying there prone for a portrait. Everywhere she ventures, Joan’s presence carries weight. The Governor makes every motion seem effortless, timeless, a novelty preserved in photography or film.

“Mm. You enjoy being weT, don’t you?” Coy, downright lascivious, she husks out a velvety laugh.

An arduous swim clears her mind, for a time. Vera paddles back and forth until she floats along, akin to driftwood, on her back. As a child, her uncle took her swimming. Called her not a fish, but an otter or even a rakali. When she hopes her mentor is looking, she whirls and she twirls. However, she doesn’t find herself very graceful in keeping afloat.

“I, ah, wanted to unwind,” Vera confesses. “The water’s fine.” She spews a telltale cliché.

Smitten, she sneaks glances from within the pool (her contained environment), when she thinks Joan isn’t watching her. Holding onto the ledge, she’s no siren as she kicks away from the wall to reach the other side. As predicted, Joan Ferguson rises to move with the precision of a surgeon. Shame, coupled with shyness, tears her gaze away.

Seeing the Governor suddenly so exposed makes her mouth run dry. She needs a shot, something to take off the edge. Instead, she plunges herself into the unforgiving, chlorinated water. A dip into the baptismal font clears her mind, forms a blank slate, and has her surging towards the surface after a rush of bubbles. She forgets to breathe and learns how to all over again.

Vera commits that saunter to memory. Those long powerful legs will haunt her for days. She admires her beauty, her grace, that spills out of the uniform and reveals itself to her tonight.

Joan’s shadow preys on Vera, as she creeps closer to the water.

When Vera wades into the deep end, her feet can’t touch the ground. She kicks – struggles – to stay afloat. Beyond her depth, the subtle waves accompany her frantic propelling motion. A riptide threatens to lure her back under. The pulse between her legs robs her of breath.

In that one-piece swimsuit, the tantalizing swell of her breasts leave little to the imagination. Joan enters the pool and the sea itself could split in two from her prophetic touch.

Graceful butterfly strokes, delicate and poised, work against the once still body of water. Languid yet derisive strokes guide her to and fro. A long, leisurely pace comes across as second nature for her. She has the luxury of enjoying the pool without any insufferable traveler save for the one she puts a modicum of trust into. Buoyantly, her body glides across the reflective surface. How spry she is for a woman of her caliber!

Her body gets reflected, fractured, and the light's all refracted, courtesy of the surface. 

Vera looks on in perfect reverence. The fire in her eyes works overtime. She watches the Governor do a lap or two. Some ethereal being out of folklore gets commemorated not in portraiture, but memory. Surely, she’s going to get sucked into a chasm she can’t escape.

 _Is there anything she can’t do_? Vera wonders in awe, a bit too starstruck, and afflicted by her seemingly innocent crush.

A shark zips across the vast expanse which once separated them. Steered towards the silver ladder, Vera grips the handle. If she lets go, she’ll sink to the bottom.

“Are you up for the challenge, Vera?” Governor Ferguson inquires.

If it’s a test, then she’s determined to pass it.

Despite the depth of the water, Joan corners her. A silver tongue traces the shell of a cherry red ear.  
  
In a late-night swim, hesitant Vera Bennett bites her lip. She opens her mouth to the languid teasing of feather soft lips, the clever dance of a skilled tongue. Compared to Joan, she feels a novice, but maybe they both are. The prospect makes her heart sing. Unified motion rivals the crashing, lapping, hungry waves in a sacred kind of worship.

She could hear her heartbeat; it nearly sits in the palm of Joan’s hand which forms a fist. Or is that Joan's heart? 

She doesn't know, doesn't care.

Although it’s uncomfortable, her back hits the ground, her legs still in the water. When she threatens to slip and fall, Joan holds her in place. A pale thigh slices through the water, filling the gap between her sinewy legs. Her forearms touch tiles, elbows on the edge, propped up by a cunning titan. Joan’s palms land on the surface. She’ll bathe away any trace of contamination after this delightful tête-à-tête.

When Joan kisses her, she holds her hostage. It’s the goading tease of a kiss coupled with the promise of a fuck.

She licks her lips, only temporarily whetting her appetite, as tentative as a fawn until bravery gets the better of Vera.

Underwater, a torturous dance of tangled limbs ensues. Held and feeling secure, there’s no drowning in the Gov’na’s embrace. In the kiss, Vera has the gall to bite and suck on her lower lip. Where did that unforeseen ferocity come from?

Her teeth hold on until she renders the Governor's bottom lip swollen, aching like the other cruel parts of her being. Joan quirks a well-defined brow. Slender fingers trace the swell of pert, slightly upturned breasts despite the constraints of the well-fitted suit. A manicured nail encircles her taut nipple. With force, she flicks. Vera squeaks out a moan that she muffles against Joan's neck. She fights the instinct to bite down, to sink her teeth into something concrete, into someone she wants to devour in every sense.

“How greedy you are,” she rasps and Vera swears that Joan's voice thickens. Deepens.

They’re both insatiable.

Neither the crescendo nor the flourish reach their peak. Starved, denied, tension remains a palpable spark between them. Koschei’s kiss of death robs her of breath. She parts her lips granting access to that questing tongue. Her lungs shudder to think of life after _this_.

“Not here,” Joan croons against her parted lips, simultaneously taunting and teasing. It’s far too filthy for an escapade despite her earlier request to the hotel staff. They abide by her commands for a proper cleansing. After all, she has a healthy, heavy cash flow.

Anointed with a kiss, Joan (outside of work, she allows Vera the privilege of her name) feeds her the sweetest of promises.

“Come to my room, Vera. We’ll have one last debrief.”

Downright giddy from excitement, want throws her into a spiral, a tide, into the throes of something unforeseen.

Step by step, Joan emerges from the water, her image reminiscent to an ethereal goddess. The rivulets meandering down her skin remind Vera that she isn’t marble, but flesh and blood: a tangible reality. Vera savors how the droplets slither down Joan’s form in a gentle stream divided like the blueprint of veins. Her ponytail sticks to her rigid spine, her posture impeccable. That unconventional beauty captivates her.

She wades out of the pool like a wrathful, forgotten God.

By hand, Joan guides her willing disciple out of the water. Vera holds onto her lifeline and then, they let go, the grip relinquished. Wet fabric clings to Vera’s skin as she climbs out. Swallowing nervously, she’s quick to envelope herself in a fluffy, white, hotel-issued towel. After a heavy exhale, a puddle forms beneath her feet.

Alone in the shower, Vera washes the chlorine from her body.

Before and after that scandalous dip, Joan affords a rinse in her shower wringing the chemicals from her hair. Clad in only a terrycloth robe, she welcomes her into her lair. Her dark mane, no longer damp, but silken and dry. How she relishes this act of self-purification.

There’s a knock which sounds more like the scratching of nails against wood.  
  
“Still damp, I see,” Joan muses with the ghost of a smirk gleaming across her sensuous lips.

Vera's hair remains a wet mass, the scent of hotel-issued shampoo radiating from her body.

“I should go.”

Doubt casts her in the starring role of a fool. The bolted door separating their rooms for privacy’s sake isn’t a complete loss of resources.

“You may stay.”

Instead, Vera throws away her dignity and finds her delight in being bold, too bold, by closing the door behind her and opening her robe to reveal herself.

Amorous desire ushers her to the door of the wolf’s den. Punctuality serves a purpose. Who was she to refuse an open invitation?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine that sometimes Joan might be ostentatious depending on the nature of her relationship with another – not to the level of Sonia’s vapid consumerism or outright flaunting of wealth lol. The brandy is a generous gift for Vera, a celebration of their union which gets probed, tested, and establishes (temporary) fealty.
> 
> Richard Siken's "Crush" is one of my favorite poetry collections. However, I find "War of the Foxes" more apt for this moment. I recommend you give both a read, if you’re curious. Here’s the poem – Detail of the Fire – in its entirety: https://apoemaday.tumblr.com/post/179118613720/detail-of-the-fire
> 
> Here’s the statue of Sappho I had in mind (it’s one of my favorites): https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/209017


	3. skin the lamb and you’ll find a ravenous wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rendezvous in the hotel room leads to an unholy consecration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no eloquent way for me to say this, but as a warning, this chapter contains breathplay in the sense that Joan is coming down on Vera's face to ride her; this concept was inspired from Lexie @joanlemmesmash (Twitter)/theLexfiles on ao3 eons ago. Major shoutout to her for being a fun writing partner. :P Joan uses her thighs for pleasurable gain; there is no outright choking. If this is not your forte, I apologize.

“I suppose you won’t be needing another drink.”

That quip delivers a weighted blow though her opponent stands her ground. She looks down at Vera past the fine slope of her nose. Akin to flint causing a spark, her tongue strikes the roof of her mouth. Her palm leaves the lock which slides into place to feed into the secrets eager to fester.

Emboldened, Vera meets her sordid stare. She parts her lips without so much as a quiver. Want tears apart her insides. Her grip digs into the flaps of her robe like it’s an outer layer of skin peeled back to prepare for the vivisection. She flays herself in the fashion of Saint Bartholomew.

Now nude, her lambskin – wolfskin, snakeskin, the pelt of great sacrifice – tumbles onto the ground.

The freezing cold burns as much as tempestuous heat. Goosebumps prick her skin, the sensation from the aircon a glacial force with its mechanical intent to cool the environment down. The appraisal of her body rivals the worship of art in a bleak, white cube gallery or a museum with many doors beckoning deeper introspection.

Somehow, Joan’s silence doesn’t humiliate, but provides her with a stronger background, a proper foundation to stand on.

“I came here for a taste of something else,” Vera bites back. Clips her teeth together. A click of porcelain that sounds like such a pretty hurt.

The pain behind the gesture send a shiver down Joan’s spine.

In slow motion, a cruel God meanders around the pawn that remains upright, bare feet unaccustomed to the gaudy red and blue rug. Devoted to the (un)holy Guv’na, such tacit consent beckons her into the room barren of personality which zaps one facet of vulnerability.

“On the bed.”

Off, Little Red goes. She turns on her heel and reclines despite not quite laying herself down. It’s no bed of roses: the pillow’s stiff, the blankets are scratchy, and Vera doesn’t find herself to be particularly seductive with the rolls of her belly pinched just so. However, the inclination to flee disappears.

Yet, there is no greater exhilaration than watching the Governor prowl towards her across the standardized mattress on all fours, the way mythological beasts do. Joan sits between her splayed legs, arching a playful, quirked brow. Joan’s nails scratch at her ribcage, catlike in its gesture while possessing a bit of a cruel, taunting streak.

Bound together, this sacred act makes them that much closer. It’s an intimacy that Vera has often found null and void, unfulfilled from a quick succession under the sheets to her flimsy fumble with Fletch.

Once the clothing gets disregarded, rosy nipples peak – begging to be flicked, teased, and sucked on. Shyly, she reveals herself. Her fingers stroke and caress her plump lower lips, nails brushing the bed of curls. Vera cants her legs to expose herself despite the nervous tremor that runs through her.

My, her little Vera is full of surprises.

Although sleeping in the nude is a practicality only afforded in her own private domain, Joan's fingers wander towards the hem of the maroon slip she wears. In an act of equivalent exchange, she reveals herself as sorceresses do in plays, in songs, in books where her kind is always treated poorly.

“Tell me what you want.”

The command almost rubberbands Vera back into subservience. Played for a violin (not the foolish fiddle), she gasps. Her toes curl, the churning of arousal twisting her innards.

A plethora of depravity crosses her mind though it threatens to short circuit. Vera flounders, as if she’s been tossed into the pool again. Desire clouds her judgment, her views a perpetual state of conflict. Everything she _wants_ – to quote Joan’s use of the word – seems terribly deranged. Though a kiss would be a blessing, she aspires for relief.

“Taste me,” Vera barks out, nearly splutters.

That newly found authoritative streak could get her off. She’s plenty aroused, throbbing with need.

When her large, gentle palm swallows Vera’s angular hip, Joan coaxes Vera’s leg over the crook of her shoulder. That wicked tongue traces her sex. Like a sorceress, Joan manipulates pleasure, knowing where to caress and stroke. Delicate, teasing touches reveal how wet she is. Gyrates against that fervent wetness in such steadfast devotion. Temporarily, as she does during every debrief, Vera feels the magnitude of Joan’s scrutinized care and concern. Friction, pressure, motion leaves her mewling out forgotten scripture.

Biting her lip, chopping it to bits courtesy of the snag of teeth, she grips jet black hair, strewn with grey and highlights of another shade.

The snake recoils, leaving the fruit to glisten, overripe and begging to be taken. Joan curves her lips, damp even after she licks away the heady residue of her essence.

Despite how precarious the situation might be, Vera finds herself desperate for gratification. How she envies Joan’s self-restraint. She pushes her chest against Joan’s, her legs pinning one of hers for self-indulgence. If she were to be called a whore in church, it would make her all the wetter.

“My, my. How naughTy you are,” Joan hums, observing Vera’s desperate attempts at self-gratification. “Would you rather have me inside you?”

Vera misses seeing that curved tongue dart away from her sex.

The Governor – her judge, jury, and executioner – cants her limb. Bucks her knee. Sets her foot flat on the stiff mattress.

_Oh._

“Yes,” she replies without a moment of hesitation, grinding herself along Joan’s upper thigh. Upon feeling her leg grow tense, Vera quivers.

“Show me,” Miss Ferguson demands, as if she hasn’t teased the poor doe of a woman enough.

Robbed and denied, Vera finds herself on her back once more. Hesitation gets thwarted by need. Their eyes meet – black on blue, the color of bruising after a delirious fall – and that supplies her with the courage she needs to get off. Her third finger slips across her slit, venturing to and fro, before teasing her poor, swollen clit.

Without warning, Vera slips a finger inside. This self-exploration invigorates her. Sluggishly, she fucks herself to contribute to the pressure which is indescribable. She’s spiraling, her mind a maze, her head a mess, her body willing to be consumed.

Manicured nails graze the expanse of her inner thigh, inching towards the mass of curls. Such a tantalizing touch from Joan causes Vera’s heart to leap and compels a pleasurable throb even lower. Slender fingers move away, cruel in their deprivation, as Joan caresses her hipbone. She wants to feel Joan flushed against her, her hand venturing down the plane of her quivering belly to rub against her swollen, wet cunt.

“Take another, Vera.”

Panting, she nods. Desperate for more friction, she whines. She slips a second finger inside and gasps when Joan adds another. Her slender hand joins Vera’s, cupping the palpable heat between her sinewy legs. Starved for relief, she’s dripping, stretched and aching in ways she never knew. Vera listens to the sounds her body procures. Very nearly does she feel shame.

Joan grins against Vera’s trembling lips. There is no kiss, merely a smile against a mouth begging for more in the midst of falling apart.

At this point, close to her peak, Vera finds herself incapable of speech. She bites down into flesh, the juncture of Joan’s shoulder much too appetizing. She swears she hears her Lord and Savior groan though Joan is quick to deny herself. To give nothing away.

“Ah, ah. _Slowly._ Prolong your pleasure.”

It's a whisper, a phantom suggestion.

Their fingers crook to move in sync, the pace a sluggish one. In and out, out and in, pushing deeper – tunneling further.

Although her cries are muffled, she holds on a little tighter. Kneads muscle and flesh to take her that much higher. That rocking motion lures her deeper inside. Sweat collects along her hairline the more these frantic gyrations ensue.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” Vera stammers out. She curses to sing her praise.

She opens herself up to their fingers working in perfect synchronicity: thrusting in and out, curling just so - until she’s trembling on the bed as a ruinous mess.

A hot, warm mouth latches onto Vera’s pert breast. That skilled, serpentine tongue flicks against her nipple. Each lashing causes her to wriggle and mewl while fucking herself harder. No longer embarrassed by the sound of how fucking wet she is, Vera picks up the pace. Gentle nibbling followed by sucking threatens to send her over the edge. Her coltish, dainty leg sweeps around Joan’s waist to trap her.

“Joan!” she calls out, hoarse and wanton, completely debased for the woman coiled around her body.

Inner walls flutter and contract until she’s coasting along the last waves of her pleasure swept up by the amorous tide. Vera quivers against her, a slight tremor, but not a movement based in fear.

Afterwards, she licks her finger clean, just as she will later this salacious evening. Greedily, Vera welcomes her in to the knuckle, cheeks hallowed, despite the complete and utter annihilation.

“You will please me,” Joan asserts while pinching Vera’s jawline to lure her into a torrid kiss. Their tongues touch, the exploration a journey that welcomes a steadfast end.

This affair extends beyond mutual gratification, beyond praise; it’s a sensation that Joan has avoided for years. Clumsily, albeit not oafishly, she strokes soft, brown waves. At last, she gives into craving. How revitalizing it is to fall against the soft, hungry mouth of the one who reveres you.

Servile by nature, Vera adheres to every beck and call. Now, Vera consecrates her passion - her adoration - for a deity. Religion in the past had been an obligation, a habit, for a time when she thought she would better be suited for a convent rather than corrections.

Submissive to a fault, Vera lays down, head poised on the pillow like some fairytale princess awaiting that happy ending. Pupils dilate, baby blues as wide as saucers when she’s greeted by such a fine morsel.

Pale, sturdy thighs frame her cheeks and so, she feasts. Lacking in experience, her enthusiasm suffices. With a gusto, she lavishes her attention onto Joan. This is how a woman takes the throne. Greedy, petite hands grip the firm swell of Joan’s arse. She kneads. Gives a smack, and Joan has to commend the girl’s… initiative. In desperation, the disciple pulls that admirable apostle ever closer.

She savors scent, that intoxicating musk which causes Vera to clench her thighs no matter the refractory period. She pledges fealty with eager swipes and licks. The flat bed of her tongue runs along that soaking, dripping cunt despite being used for the Governor’s delight. Perfectly in tune, slickness flows freely from between her legs.

Entombed, trapped within this marble temple and inhaling the primal smell of her sex, her loyal patron could easily suffocate. Titillated by the prospect, the Governor gives into pleasure, still clinging to scraps (her sworn tenets) of steadfast control. The all-powerful Joan Ferguson comes down, exposing herself in a rare moment of vulnerability. Those big, blue eyes peer up from her hidden, muffled position, hair splayed out on the pillow in a haphazard wave.

Caught between those firm thighs, her breath hitches. Vera has never quite known a hunger like this. She can’t bloody breathe, her throat constricted by muscle and flesh.

Joan grinds against that mouth, her faithful deputy pledging fealty and swearing to her edifice with each languid pass of Vera’s eager tongue. A shallow exhale rewards each fluid stroke before delving inside.

Again, she comes down, suffocating Vera in the process. Despite her meek protests, she continues to flick her tongue inside with deep, ardent strokes. Nails sink into marble thighs, leaving a mark while she squirms and writhes underneath. A series of crescent moons preach temporality. With her face coated in a slick sheen of sweat and fluids, she gasps for air.  
  
From above, the view is marvelous, simply breathtaking. Joan fucks her face with a fervent gusto. Her taut, tight sex squeezes that curved muscle, a tool for her pleasure.

Drowning in the Devil’s water, she looks at her like God.

Who knew you could find absolution between the Governor’s legs?

Enthusiasm replaces shyness. She kneads her round, shapely arse. In return, Joan rocks her hips. Even her languid movements are controlled. Consider this Iustitia’s scales balanced.

Awakened and gripped by a newly found vigor, Vera very nearly fawns over her superior in complete veneration. My, how impressionable she is in this unadulterated form of worship!  
  
“Such a good DepuTy,” she sings her praises, voice hoarse from pleasure and lust alike.

Once upon a time, the iron curtain vowed to concealed her chest. Now, Joan rolls her breasts in her hands before pinching her nipples and stretching them out for friction’s sake.

The timed, measured fall of her hips lure the stiff blade of her tongue inside. Shallow swipes get forgotten until she guides the passionate caresses to her hardened, twitching clit. She rides her deputy’s face. Again, Joan clenches around probing muscle. Her Deputy pays attention to detail, an eye for aesthetics, attuned to ever frantic movement.

In a most sensual burial, Vera takes her fill. God, she tastes divine. Her tongue makes long, bold strokes. Furtive strokes anoint the altar she pays tribute to. Bittersweet, similar yet unlike honey dripping from her lips, she licks it up. A little hero worship goes a long way.

She swears she’s suffocating, choking from the pressure, and the delicious sensation which overshadows her fears. Her entire world teeters on the balance, on the brink of something so chaotic, so obscene. She inhales and the fresh burst of air fills her lungs until they hurt.

Delicately, she thrusts her tongue inside until excitement gets the better of her. So, she adds a single finger in.

Maintaining some semblance of composure, Joan quivers and shakes. Thrashing, she grips the headboard. Joan rasps while the pressure builds, just as the levee breaks. Finally, her trembling thighs still right before slumping forward. Her climax is a far cry from a loss of control.

Silence coats the room. They detangle themselves despite the fumble, the panting, the mutual stare which conveys a hidden language.

With her mouth and cheeks coated in fluids, Vera licks her lips clean. Joan swipes her thumb across a ruddy cheek and presses the offered finger to Vera’s mouth. She takes it inside like a good girl.

Deputy Governor Bennett never wavers, never strays, refuses to err to please her superior. Following these special orders, so eager to cater to another’s whims, Vera welcomes Joan’s fingers into her mouth. She laps away at the evidence. Swallows. Consumes the last vestiges of holiness to render her hollow.

After the fall, Joan slips free from the bed, draws on her robe in an even flow, to run a bath. Normally, she doesn’t entertain such a notion due to sanitary concerns, but it’s necessary to fulfill the bond between Vera and herself. It’s a swift, efficient means to come clean.

Dazed by the warm, golden afterglow, she finds herself scooped up and carried off to the washroom akin to a blushing bride. It’s not what Vera expects from a woman so reserved, so closed-off during work. Vera suspects it’s an ostentatious, if not possessive display of character, but she doesn’t mind.

Vera craves the comfort of a bath. The romantic in Vera yearns for more than an errant fuck and God, this is it.

Vera manipulates her hair into a messy ponytail, Joan pulls her hair into a neat, albeit loose bun. It’s a habit, twisted and recognized.

Back to bare breasts and belly, Vera settles in between pale thighs. Her hand coasts along the length of Joan’s leg before cleaning the tops of her feet with a cloth, as Mary Magdalene would do. As any good partitioner would do.

Submerged in water connotes a baptism, a cleansing, and a unity in the way their bodies meld together. Those tantalizing full breasts scrape along the curvature of her back. She relishes the sensation, the softness, and relaxed against Joan.

It's finite, as all good things are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the fic’s conclusion, this Mary Magdalene reference alludes to events that occurs in my other conference fic, “Magnetize, Tantalize.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've intentionally ensured that this fic will be three chapters in the fashion of a triptych. Often, triptychs are divided into three components and serve an artistic, narrative function. Triptychs consists of some formation of a picture or a relief carving, often religious (though not always). Each section is bound together to tell a narrative from left to right, but this is not always the case. Triptychs have been reimagined in poetry, in literature, in prototypes. Meaning is so often spread out across mediums and those mediums become another form of meaning. In other words, there's much to interpret.


End file.
